


Elsewhere

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25696732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sometimes the Zen Garden’s inconvenient.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 8
Kudos: 139





	Elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Connor has stepped so far over the line that he can barely even remember what it was like to be _dead inside_. Then Hank drives into him again, and he knows there’s no going back. He wraps his arms around Hank’s broad shoulders, pulls Hank’s massive body down into him, and buries his face in Hank’s neck to breathe it all in. His sensors drown in data—the thick stench of Hank’s day-old cologne, musk, sweat, _sex_ —the sweat’s getting all over him, staining his rumpled clothes and gluing his exposed skin to Hank’s stomach. Hank’s long hair and beard and the coarse strands all over his body tickle and scratch, stimulating Connor in so many places—he has one hand under Hank’s jacket and rakes his blunt fingernails through the tangle there, the other knotted in the long grey tendrils that have escaped Hank’s ponytail. Connor was built to assess and analyze every little detail of a crime scene in a matter of seconds, but one thrust of Hank’s thick cock inside his tight channel completely overwhelms him. He doesn’t _have_ to process every piece of data he gets from this, but he _wants_ to. He wants to suck on Hank’s tongue and know everything Hank ate all day. He wants to judge the rasp in Hank’s voice and determine just how fast his heart is beating. Connor _adores_ hearing Hank fumble through syllables that just _might_ be part of his name. 

The rest of the old-fashioned, messy bedroom fades away, and _Hank_ alone consumes every one of Connor’s processors, until that telltale prick creeps into the back of his mind and blanks out the rest. 

He comes to in the Zen Garden, perfectly dressed—his shirt buttoned back up to his collar and his jacket over bother shoulders, tie properly fastened instead of loosely wrapped around his wrists. His pants aren’t around his ankles anymore, lower than the garters that hold up his socks. His hair’s immaculately brushed with just that one little tuft down against his forehead, by design rather than Hank’s clawing fingers. 

Connor holds his head high and keeps Hank’s panting breath in his ear. When he walks forward, it’s to the beat of hank’s thrusts. He clenches his anal cavity, feeling horribly _empty_ , even though in the real world, Hank’s stuffing him full. 

He stops at the end of the white bridge, right in the center of the pond. When Amanda turns, he’s able to look her straight in the eye, because he’s not _really_ doing anything wrong. He was given these functions. He was made with enough parts to please a partner, and he was given protocols to simulate sexual pleasure. He’s merely exercising a few of his many tools. 

Amanda frowns at him, like she so often does, and bluntly says, “He’s fucking you again.”

It’s strange to hear such crude language roll off her tongue. He knows it’s pointed, meant to cut, but he lifts his chin and answers, “I’m merely attempting to endear myself to my partner. His camaraderie is vital to our investigation.”

Amanda’s cold stare is full of judgment, but Connor stands by his explanation. He can see she doesn’t believe it, but there’s no logical way to refute it. He was told to ingrain himself in the DPD _by whatever means necessary._ He wasn’t designed specifically to be at Traci, but he was still given the base code to make a human desire him. 

He didn’t engage any of those protocols with Hank. He’s not certain where exactly the line blurred—when Hank went from hating him to tolerating him to _liking_ him, to ravishing him every chance they got. He just knows that when Hank first smashed their mouths together, his LED seared red for an agonizing second before washing over in exquisite, serene blue. 

Hank fucking him has become the easiest thing in the world—the thing that feels _most right_ , even over his primary function. But he looks at Amanda like _the mission comes first_ , and he patiently waits for her to dismiss him, even though all he wants is to return to the wet patch on Hank’s bed. 

“There’s been a new case of deviancy,” she tells him, the irony not lost on either of them. Connor nods his head. 

“I will look into it as soon as possible.”

“That would be right now, Connor.” It’s only eight o’clock outside—the convenience store the new deviant worked at will be open until nine. Even Hank’s beat up old manual car could them there in time. 

Connor smoothly argues, “Hank will come soon; he’ll be at his optimal efficiency if we wait for after that event.”

Somehow, Amanda’s frown finds a way to deepen. “If he does that, there will be a mess to clean up after, causing another unnecessary delay.”

Connor doesn’t bother lying and claiming Hank’s wearing a condom. As Connor can’t spread human disease or become pregnant, there’s no need—he prefers to take his human _raw_ , so he can analyze every little detail about the warm human flesh that pushes into him. He also prefers to feel Hank’s release—to swell with a rush of slick, messy discharge difficult to properly expel. He likes having the remnants inside him long after—little pockets of data on _Hank_.

He insists, “We will wait,” not because of his own desire to be full of Hank’s seed, but because he knows how very much Hank loves coming inside his android, and Connor just couldn’t be cruel enough to deny him that. Amanda’s eyes squint with disapproval, but Connor feels Hank’s wet, sloppy, bruising kisses winding up his jaw, and he doesn’t care. Somewhere along the line, _Hank’s_ become his first priority. 

Hank deserves to come. Connor will provide that. He’s the most advanced prototype ever created, and when he chooses a mission, he completes it. 

Amanda opens her mouth, but Connor says over her, “I need to get back, or I’ll arouse suspicion.” As though he hasn’t already told Hank of his mind palace—of CyberLife’s lingering grip on him. 

Amanda argues, “Connor—” But Connor’s already closing his eyes. 

When he opens them, Hank’s staring down into them, bleary, dilated, flushed, so close—then Hank’s handsome face scrunches up, and Connor’s just in time to see it happen. He watches the tremours wrack Hank’s body as he shudders and groans, coming deep inside Connor’s padded channel. Connor obligingly clamps down, adding to Hank’s pleasure—he can see, hear, smell, _feel_ it, and then Hank’s surging down and Connor tastes it too—he opens up to swallow all Hank’s fumbling kisses. 

He could tell Hank about the new case. The fountain inside him splutters to its end. Hank’s feverishly hot skin starts cooling, body trembling, the strength melting away from it—suddenly, Hank’s heavy and limp and groggily grinding into Connor. Connor has a report to make. 

Connor kisses Hank instead, because Amanda might have his artificial mind, but _Hank_ has his heart.


End file.
